


Safe Haven

by Selador



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blackmail, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Impersonation, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Threats, Threats of Violence, ardyn does this to torment prompto and that's pretty much it, ardyn is his horrible self, like in case that is not already clear, maybe? - Freeform, not long enough for a real happy ending but hopeful?, psychological fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 14:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12655233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selador/pseuds/Selador
Summary: "For a moment, Prompto's just confused, not afraid. He sees Gladio, outline so obvious even in the darkness of the tent, and while he thinks something’s wrong, he doesn’t understand the threat for what it is."





	Safe Haven

**Author's Note:**

> Based of Kaciart's artwork here: http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/167136522548
> 
> What can I say? I was inspired.

Four nights into their trip, after Insomnia falls and they scramble to find a plan, Prompto wakes with a start and a rough hand tightly gripping his jaw.

For a moment, Prompto's just confused, not afraid. He sees Gladio, outline so obvious even in the darkness of the tent, and while he thinks _something’s wrong_ , he doesn’t understand the threat for what it is. He believes there’s something outside their camp, something he needs to summon his weapon for.

But something doesn’t add up, and it doesn’t add up _quickly_. The hand on his jaw is so tight it’s painful, more so than can be explained with carelessness or fear--it’s _intentional_ , he reaches up a hand onto Gladio’s wrist to try to pull it away. Prompto doesn’t understand why Gladio is waking up _Prompto_ and not Ignis or Noct, and the expression on Gladio’s face…

It makes him go still. It’s not kind.

“Be quiet,” Gladio hisses, grip not easing. “I know what your are, _Niff_. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you now.”

His heart pounds in his chest, and even if the hand wasn’t covering his mouth, he wouldn’t be able to speak. Prompto stares into Gladio’s eyes, which remain cold and merciless, and grows ever too aware of the mark on his wrist, even as he thinks _how does he know?_

“And not just a _Niff_ either,” Gladio continues, grip growing tighter. Despite himself, Prompto whines in protest at the pain, fearing that Gladio would actually dislocate his jaw. “An _MT_.”

Prompto thinks his heart might have stopped. When it’s clear it didn’t, he wishes it had.

He shakes his head, for _no_ , as hard and has much as he can, but Gladio neither softens nor eases up. “Don’t like to me, _MT_. What did you think you would do,” he says, all venom and cutting, “pretend to be friends with the Prince to get closer to him?”

 _No_ , Prompto wants to say, but only gets out a muffled grunt.

“Do you really think something like you could ever really be the Prince’s friend?” Gladio demands. “He’d kill you himself if he knew.”

Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. Tears leak out down his cheeks, falling onto Gladio’s hand.

He half-expects a sword into his chest at this point, so he flinches with Gladio’s other hand brushes against his cheek. He opens his eyes, and Gladio’s face is so much closer than before. “What would you give me,” he whispers, a smirk--so much like the ones that grace his face when he wins a spar, always so boastful and attractive, and so horrible now--playing about his lips. “To keep this our little secret?”

Prompto can’t move. The hand on his mouth slowly move upwards until it’s firmly embedded in Prompto’s hair. Gladio lean down, and presses his lips against Prompto’s and--and--

Prompto’s imagined this before, in his fleeting fantasies. Gladio’s tall and muscular and handsome, and Prompto’s only human. And he was always--he was always so nice, until--

Prompto closes his eyes. Gladio’s mouth is rough, and he’s pressing too hard, and--

“Get up,” Gladio says, pulling him out of bed and out of the tent. Prompto stumbles blindly forward.

They don’t leave the haven. Gladio forces him down to his bare knees, the stone hard and rough, and says, “Keep quiet,” as he pulls down his pants.

Prompto stares at his erection, practically eye-level with it, brain still not processing what’s happening. Or not willing to process it.

“Open your mouth,” Gladio says, grabbing his hair. It hurts.

He pulls him forward, and Prompto reflexively turns his face away, so it hits his cheek.

Gladio pulls harder on his hair, and pushes his dick against his cheek and ear. It leaves a little wet smear. “You want me to tell Noct that we have an MT infiltrator with us?”

Prompto shakes his head. _No_. He’s crying again. He’s never--he’s never felt this unsafe before, and Gladio’s hands are still on them, and they were so reassuring just a day ago--

Gladio’s hand holds him still this time.

Prompto keeps his eyes closed as much as possible, as he tries not to gag. His jaw hurts still, and even more than it did. He doesn’t get a warning when Gladio finishes, and he splutters and chokes as Gladio pulls his pants back up.

“Don’t tell Noct,” Prompto wheezes. “Please.”

Gladio looks down at him. Smirking. “I won’t,” he says, words so, so taunting. “But only if you keep making it worth my while.” And with that, he pulls Prompto up, and he struggles to find his footing with his sore knees and his upended worldview, and smacks him on the shoulder in a mockery of companionship. “Might as well enjoy keeping the _MT_ under watch, shouldn’t I?”

Prompto doesn’t respond. Gladio walks back to the tent, leaving him behind.

When Prompto returns, a little bit before he knows Ignis will wake, Gladio is fast asleep.

…

Prompto clearly knew nothing about who Gladio really is. That’s obvious enough as it is, but Gladio acts so _normal_ the next few days. He worried that Gladio would make a comment, something cutting and revealing and--and Prompto would be staring down Noct’s blade if Ignis or Gladio didn’t get to him first, but he says nothing.

In the morning, he shakes Prompto awake, and says, “We running, or what?” and trembling, Prompto pulls on his running clothes and leaves with him.

“Everything alright?” Gladio asks him. He places a hand on his shoulder, and Prompto forces himself not to react. They’re alone but not quite alone--there are people around. They’re not far from the nearest outpost.

Prompto nods. Gladio frowns at him. “You sure?”

“I’m fine,” Prompto says, not sure what Gladio is playing at.

Gladio stares at him, and Prompto represses his fear. “Alright,” he says. “Come on, we’ve got another mile to go.”

Later, after they finish off a hunt, Gladio slaps him on the back and says, “Good shot, Prompto!”

Prompto doesn’t hide his flinch well enough. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Gladio apologizes, for some reason, but he’s grinning.

Neither Noct nor Ignis see.

…

He doesn’t sleep the first night after. He doesn’t want to sleep the next, but he does anyway. Gladio doesn’t wake him up.

He’s woken up by a hard, heavy body on top of him four nights after the first time.

“Be quiet,” Gladio hisses. He pushes a knee between Prompto’s. “Don’t make a single sound, or you’re dead.”

Prompto doesn’t make a single sound. Noctis, just across the room in the other bed, doesn’t stir at all.

…

Gladio acts so well, and they don’t talk about it during the day, so Prompto assumes that he’ll keep Prompto’s secret so long as he does what he wants.

He touches Prompto during the day. It’s not so different from how he touched him before… he woke Prompto up that first time.

But sometimes the touches linger longer than they should. Than they do for Noctis or Iggy.

And one day, after many nights of waking up to Gladio taking what he pleases, Gladio kisses him in full daylight in Lestallum.

Prompto, not thinking well in the sudden rush of terror, pushes him away. “What are you doing?” Prompto says, panickedly seeing if Ignis or Noctis are around. “Not during the day!”

“What?” Gladio says. There’s no smirk. His eyes are wide and surprised.

Prompto doesn’t have the patience for his games.

He bolts away, and runs straight into Noctis. “Whoa, Prompto, hold up. What’s wrong?” he asks. He looks to Prompto, and then back at Gladio, and frowns. “Gladio, what’d you do to Prompto?”

Gladio hesitates. Prompto hurries to say, “He didn’t do anything.”

Noctis frowns, clearly not buying it. “Prompto, you can tell me if Gladio’s being an ass.”

Prompto’s stomach drops, and he doesn’t dare to look back at Gladio. “He’s not, it’s fine.”

Noctis stares at him, eyes narrow. They flick back to Gladio, and he demands, “Gladio, what did you do?”

“Noct,” Prompto says, before Gladio can answer, can tell Noct that he’s been traveling with an MT this entire time. “It’s _fine_ , let it go.”

“Prompto,” Ignis says, walking up behind Noctis, voice low and concerned. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Prompto says.

“I kissed him,” Gladio says lowly, behind him. “But he also said…”

“You _kissed_ him?” Noctis repeats.

“What did he say?” Ignis asks.

“Nothing,” Prompto says. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Prompto,” Gladio says, coming up behind him and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Prompto tenses. With Gladio behind him, Ignis and Noctis in front of him, he’s surrounded. And he’s broken his side of the bargain, so Gladio has no reason to keep his secret.

He has nowhere to run. No friends who will help him. Nowhere to go. He can’t run. He can’t fight all three of them.

He can’t even fight Gladio, as he’s proven over and over and over again. Prompto’s so weak he can’t even defend himself.

The hand on his shoulders squeeze, familiar fingers digging into his flesh, and Prompto makes a choice. He’s not going to survive this--but Gladio sure as hell won’t either.

Prompto turns around, gun materializing in his hand in a reassuring blue flash for what will likely be the last time, points it into Gladio’s gut, and pulls the trigger.

Noctis shouts, and Ignis swears, but both are drowned out by ensuing screams around them.

Prompto takes the opportunity to bolt. Noctis warps to him, but just misses, and the surging crowd stops him from trying again. There are people in the crowd that try to grab him on his way--people who work at the plant and deal with daemons on a daily basis aren’t cowards--but Prompto’s always been quick on his feet. He was trained to dodge.

He reaches the city’s limits. He keeps running.

He gets well past the road. He keeps running.

He stops only when it grows dark, and the shadows tremble, daemons just waiting to emerge. He stumbles, exhausted, to the nearest haven.

Prompto has nothing, now. He doesn’t banish his gun--there’s no telling when Noctis will prevent his access to the Arsenal, and the last thing he needs is to be alone _and_ unarmed

He climbs up to the top of the haven, and lies down on the hard surface. He’s alone, with only the stars for company, and they’re impassive to his pain.

Gladio’s going to tell them. He’s not going to die from one gunshot, not with Ignis and Noctis right there with their potions and magic. Prompto should have aimed for his head, if he really wanted to end it.

And he so, so wanted to end it. But--but--

Prompto curls onto his side. He’s so _useless_ , he couldn’t even kill the guy who raped him.

But he’s away, now. Even if he’s friendless and alone, at least he’s away from Gladio now.

That has to be enough.

…

Prompto sleeps deeply, legs aching from his escape, so his horror is confounded with disorientation when a large hand grabs his throat.

“Did you really think,” Gladio says, voice rough and angry, “that you could be rid of me so easily?”

Prompto tries to scream, but it comes out as raspy choke. Gladio lifts him up by the neck, and throws him to the ground. Prompto doesn’t have the time to get back up or grab his gun--he’s held down with a hand on the back of his neck, while the other rips his pants down.

He grasps the haven for purchase, but he doesn’t try to hold back his screams or his tears. He thought--he got _away_ , he finally got away, he _shot_ Gladio, _how did he find him_?

Where were Noctis and Ignis? Why were they letting this happen?

“Stupid boy,” Gladio says but--something’s wrong.

Something--Prompto looks over his shoulder, even while his face is being ground against the stone.

It’s not Gladio behind him.

It’s not--

\--it’s _not_ Gladio.

“Don’t recognize me, my boy?” the man says, but Prompto does. It’s the Chancellor. Ardyn Something. He forces Prompto down again, until Prompto can no longer see him. He laughs.

Actually laughs.

“I must say,” he says, thrusting in. Comments as mildly like he’s only talking about the weather. “I never thought you would be so bold as to actually kill your friend.”

 _Kill_? No, that’s wrong. It had to be wrong. Noctis and Ignis wouldn’t have let Gladio die from one bullet wound

“Oh, the poor Amicitia. Died without ever knowing why one of his friends shot him,” Ardyn says. “Can you imagine what that betrayal would feel like?”

 _No_. No, no, this can’t be happening.

“He had no idea,” Ardyn whispers into his ear, breath hot in the cold night air. “This entire time. And the poor boy had a crush on you. Always trying to linger with his hands on you.”

No.

“He _pined_ for you,” he says. “I almost wanted to let him walk in on my taking you. To see what he can’t have, that I’ve taken so _easily_.”

No.

“Did you know that first night, my boy, Gladiolus was sleeping just mere feet away from you? If you had only looked to your right, you would have seen through my entire charade.”

Prompto sobs.

There’s a furious shout, and Prompto falls onto the stone with Ardyn’s sudden absence. There are people, there, attacking him--he hears Noctis, and Ignis, and Gladio--

He shoots up, and--yes. It’s Gladio.

He’s not dead. Prompto didn’t kill him.

They’re fighting Ardyn, who is at best toying with them, and all Prompto can do is cry from relief.

…

They chase Ardyn away, but they don’t manage to kill him. The best Prompto can do is stay out of the way, and when it’s all over, he hurriedly pulls on his clothes--or what’s left of them, Ardyn ripped his pants--before the guys come over.

“Prompto,” Noctis says, and stops. Prompto never wanted Noctis to sound like that. Not over him.

He almost would have preferred an angry, betrayed Noctis, striking him down.

“You have injuries,” Ignis says, when Prompto doesn’t respond. He steps closer, pulling out a potion. Prompto expects him to use it on him, but he just hands it over.

With a little bit of difficulty, he breaks the glass and heals himself. It’s a relief.

“Prompto,” Noctis says again. “What happened?”

Prompto opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

There’s a flash of blue, and Prompto, not quite expecting any relief from fear, flinches. Ignis pauses. “I believe, Prompto, that you might be more comfortable with proper clothing,” he says, and he’s only holding a pair of Prompto’s sweatpants and a sweater.

“Yeah,” he says, and hesitates as they all keep watching him.

“I’ll set up the tents,” Gladio says. “Noctis.”

“Coming,” he says.

They all go off to their usual routine, while Prompto pulls off his torn clothes and replaces them with the ones Ignis gave him. Their backs are turned towards him, affording him privacy, but he thinks, briefly, that he should run again. There’s no telling what they’re going to do, when they find out. And they’re going to demand to know, why he shot Gladio, why he let--why he let who he thought was Gladio rape him, for _months_.

And--and Ardyn--

\--Ardyn could be _anywhere_. _Anyone_.

Prompto begins to shake. He couldn’t trust _anyone_ \--

“Prompto,” Noctis says, in front of him. He reaches out as if to grab his shoulders, but aborts the movement. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re--” he stops, swallowing hard. “He’s gone. We’ll do whatever we can to help you. Okay?”

Noctis didn’t help at all these past several months.

But Prompto nods. What else can he do?

…

Ignis makes some food, but doesn’t seem surprised when no one eats anything.

“Prompto,” Noctis begins. “Why did you shoot Gladio?” Prompto haunches in, trying to make himself smaller. “You freaked out, ran away, and then… we’re kind of at a loss here.”

“That was the High Chancellor of Niflheim,” Ignis says. “Why was he here?”

Prompto can’t--he can’t tell them. If he tells them why the Chancellor was here, and who Prompto thought he was, they would ask what Gladio--not Gladio, Ardyn--had on him to force him into silence.

There’s no way they would believe that it was just because he’s from Niflheim. Not even Noctis would buy something so flimsy. There’s (or _were_ , Prompto thinks queasily) lots of refugees from Niflheim in Insomnia. Prompto lived in the Niff District. Noctis would never believe that that was the blackmail.

“I’m an MT,” Prompto says, before he can think it through. Rip the band-aid off, get it over with, nothing could be worse than this.

“ _What_?” Gladio says, voice low.

“Prompto,” Ignis says, interrupting Gladio. His voice is dangerously even. “I think you ought to explain.”

“What do you mean, you’re an MT?” Noctis says.

Prompto sobs, unable to keep it in. There’s some hissed whispers, and Iggy’s kneeling in front of him. “Prompto,” he says, a little bit more gentle than before, but it still grates against Prompto’s mind. “We need to know what’s happened. As far as we know, you shot Gladio before fleeing, and you’ve just told us that you’re a… MagiTek soldier,” he finishes, frowning.

“Did you betray us, Prompto?” Noctis demands. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Prompto says, trying not to hiccup. “I swear, I didn’t--I’m not--”

Noctis stares at him, but Prompto can’t maintain eye contact. He buries his face in his hand, the tears still falling.

All of that suffering, for _nothing_. He went through--he did everything Gladio--Ardyn, not Gladio--told him to do, and he’s still--

He’s still--

He’s still losing everything.

“Prompto,” Noctis says softly. “Prompto, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

He shakes his head. _No_.

“Prompto, please. Why was the Chancellor here?” Noctis asks. “Why was he--I mean, what happened…?”

“He was going to tell you,” Prompto whimpers, miserable. “He was going to tell you all--what I am.”

“He was _blackmailing_ you?” Ignis says.

“That doesn’t explain why he _shot_ me,” Gladio says.

“He pretended to be you,” Prompto says. “I didn’t know. I _swear_ , I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

“Pretended to be who?” Ignis asks, but--Prompto thinks he suspects. He has that foreboding tone of voice. Prompto doesn’t want to answer. “Prompto, did he pretend to be Gladio?”

Grateful he doesn’t have to say it outloud, Prompto nods.

“He pretended to be _me_?” Gladio demands. “ _How_?”

“There are rumors about the High Chancellor of Nilfheim,” Ignis murmurs. “That say he has access to some kind of magic. I never put much stock in them, but--”

“Prompto, did Ardyn pretend to be Gladio while he was _raping_ you?” Noctis says, interrupting Ignis and putting everything Prompto didn’t want to ever spoken. If it’s never spoken, Prompto could still deny it, still pretend that’s _not what happened_.

But Noctis just says it. Just says it.

He looks up at Noctis, and Ignis, and Gladio, and--

Gladio’s expression. He looks--how could Prompto have ever thought it was really Gladio? How could--how could he--?

“I didn’t know,” Prompto whines, face wet and miserable. “I didn’t know, I didn’t _know--_ ”

“You thought it was me?” Gladio asks. Wounded. Prompto did that, that’s all his fault.

“You thought--” Gladio stops. “Was this the first time?”

Noctis tenses in front of him, and Prompto can’t find the energy or willpower to lie. He shakes his head.

“How long has this been going on?” Ignis asks softly, raising a hand to silence Gladio’s next question.

Prompto swallows hard, and hopes someone will speak to prevent him from answering. No one does, so he says, voice raspy, “Since after--after Galdin.”

“That’s been _months_ ,” Noctis says.

Prompto knows.

They’ve been long months.

“He looked just like Gladio,” Prompto says. “And he said--he said that he knew that I’m an MT,” his voice breaks, and no, it turns out he hasn’t run out of tears yet. He doesn’t think he ever will. “That he wouldn’t tell you if--if I--” He can’t say it.  

“Prompto, you’re still you,” Noctis says, so earnestly. “I don’t care if--if someone tried to make you be an MT. You’re one of us. You’re my friend.” Prompto looks up into Noctis’ sincere, affectionate face, and wonders how he could ever tell him that he thought that Noctis would _kill_ him if he knew the truth. “Did you really think I would--I don’t know what he told you, cast you out, or something--”

Prompto’s face is too expressive. It always has been. Whatever it does, Noctis sees, and goes silent. “Prompto,” he says. “What did you think I would do?”

“It was stupid,” Prompto says, “I shouldn’t have believed him. I shouldn’t have--”

“Prompto,” Noctis says again, wounded. “Did you really think I would _hurt_ you?”

“No,” Prompto says. If Ardyn meant to hollow him out, leave him as empty as they all believe MTs to be--then he succeeded. “I thought you would kill me.”

Silence. “No,” says Ignis.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry--”

“Prompto,” Noctis says again, kneeling down in front of Prompto’s chair. He makes eye contact, and slowly reaches for Prompto’s hand.

Prompto hadn’t noticed he was missing his wristband. His barcode is bare for the world to see.

Noctis slowly takes his hand. “I’m so sorry, Prompto. I should have--this never should have happened.”

“It’s not your fault,” Prompto says, leaning forward, desperate for Noctis to know that this isn’t his fault at all. That it’s _Prompto’s_. “I should have know that you wouldn’t--that Gladio wouldn’t--”

“I’d be pretty convinced,” Gladio mumbles, “if someone took one your appearances.”

“Indeed,” Ignis says. “If Ardyn masqueraded as Gladio, then you could only believe Gladio was capable of such a thing.”

“How many times did he--?” Gladio begins, but Ignis cuts him off.

“Perhaps we should retire for the night. I’m sure Prompto has had… quite enough,” Ignis finishes, a bit awkwardly.

Prompto nods, not wanting to sleep and make himself vulnerable, but wanting to leave the situation, and stands up. Noctis stands up with him. “Can I--Prompto, can I hug you?”

His immediate response is no, he doesn’t want to be touched, but it’s--it’s Noctis. He’s open, and concerned, and Prompto is the worst friend in the world for thinking for so long that Noctis would ever hurt him. He nods, and Noctis’ arms come around him, and holds him tightly.

It’s feel safe, and warm.

He had no idea how much he needed this.

…

They don’t stay at the haven. Someone--probably Ignis--correctly presumes that this haven is _not_ the best place for Prompto, so they banish their gear back to the Arsenal and brave driving at night to get back to Lestallum.

The hotel still has a room for them, since, strangely enough, none of them thought to check out in the midst of everything that happened. It’s a small mercy.

After furtive and not-so-subtle non-verbal communication, Noctis asks him, “Do you want a bed to yourself?”

“Not really,” Prompto mutteres. What’s to stop Ardyn from coming _back_ ? He couldn’t keep up the same ruse, but if he could be _anyone_ \--

“Want to share with me, then?” Noctis asks.

“Yeah,” Prompto says.

The next day, Prompto lingers in the hotel room, cleaning one of his guns. The others are gone--shopping, or whatever. The repetitive movement distracts him from the turmoil of his thoughts, of last night’s revelations, and he feels a focus he hasn’t in a while, but he still startles when someone knocks.

“Prompto?” Gladio asks through the door. “It’s me.” What a loaded statement. He hesitates, audibly. “I want to talk, if you feel up to it, but I can leave. Or get one of the others--”

“You can come in,” Prompto calls out. Gladio never hurt him. It wasn’t Gladio. He isn’t going to let Ardyn fuck up his friendships like that.

The door creaks as it opens. Gladio steps in, moves to close the door, and asks uneasily, “Do you want me to keep it open?”

It’s only Gladio. “You can close it,” Prompto says. He’d rather have privacy, for this. The world doesn’t need to know how easily tricked he is.

The door closes, and Prompto is alone with Gladio, who is not the one he needs to be scared of. He has to remember that.

Prompto’s scared anyway. He can’t not see the smirk that Ardyn would wear on Gladio’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” Gladio whispers, leaning against the door. “I never meant to hurt you.”

That’s not at all what Prompto expected. “But it wasn’t you. It was Ardyn.”

“I kept trying to flirt with you, and you never--I thought you were _letting_ me, or maybe that you didn’t get it,” Gladio says, face drawn and tense. “I thought maybe I wasn’t being obvious enough, and so I thought--” He stops. “He only hurt you at night, didn’t he? That’s why you said what you did. ‘Not during the day.’”

Prompto swallows, mouth dry. “Yeah,” he says. “Only during the night.”

Gladio was flirting with him, these past few months, and it’s difficult to reconcile with what he _thought_ he was doing. All this time, he thought it was a power move. A way to show Prompto how unsafe he was, how little control and power he had. But it was just Gladio, being only as physically affectionate as he normally is, and perhaps a little more with Prompto than with the others, because he was trying to _flirt_ with him.

Gods.

Did Ardyn know that? Is that why he picked Gladio’s face?

Prompto puts his gun to the side, and wipes his hands on his cloth. He releases a long, shuddering sigh as he tries not to cry again.

“I didn’t know,” Gladio says, “I never wanted to hurt you. Or make things worse. I swear, I had no idea, Prompto.”

“It’s not your fault,” Prompto says. “He said--he said that you were right in the tent. That if I had looked to the side, I would have seen you and known. But I--I didn’t. I should have.”

Gladio makes a wounded noise. “No, Prompto, I should have woken up. Someone should have. We should have woken up and _killed_ him.”

Somehow, Prompto doesn’t believe that Gladio ever would have won that fight. He shudders. He wishes they had woken up, but he’s--he’s glad they’re still alive. “He might have done something to you guys. To stop you from waking up. If he could disguise himself--” _so well that his entire_ body _matched Gladio’s holy_ shit “--maybe he made you guys stay asleep.”

“Don’t do this,” Gladio pleads, voice odd and broken. Prompto glances up at him, and flinches. Gladio’s _crying_ , which he wipes away furiously. “You can be angry at me. Us. You _should_ be. You thought for months that it was me that was--that was _doing_ that to you, blackmailing you and hurting you, and even though it wasn’t, _I wasn’t able to protect you_.”

“You’re not supposed to protect me,” Prompto protests.

“The hell I am,” Gladio says, covering his eyes with one of his hands now. “What’s the point of me if I can’t stop my friend from being raped in the same tent I’m in?”

Prompto doesn’t have anything to say to that. “I can’t let--I’m not going to let Ardyn ruin my entire life,” he says instead, at great length. His own eyes prickle with heat. “I can’t let him, Gladio.”

“Yeah,” Gladio says, still leaning heavily against the door. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Me too,” Prompto says.

Neither of them know how to continue. “I’ll stop flirting,” Gladio says. “And--all touching, until you say it’s okay. And it doesn’t ever have to be okay.”

Prompto looks at Gladio, and bites his lip. He stands up and faces him, heart fluttering in his chest. “Can you… come here?”

Gladio hesitates, and doesn’t leave the door. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know,” Prompto says, courage leaving him. “But if I don’t, I don’t know when… Please?” Gladio stands up from the door and approaches slowly. It makes Prompto feel like prey, so he takes a couple of nervous steps towards him. “You always gave me such good hugs,” Prompto tries to explain. “And I just want to try--to see if--”

Gladio opens up his arms and waits. His face is solemn and his eyes are red, and for a second, he looks nothing like the man Ardyn pretended to be. Prompto ducks forward, wrapping his arms around his torso, keeping Gladio’s face in his field of vision.

It takes a while for Prompto to relax into his own hug, but he manages. It’s Gladio. It’s really Gladio. The feel is the same, and Prompto doesn’t know how Ardyn accomplished that and never wants to. But the ever-present threat of violence, of force, isn’t there. Gladio doesn’t even move his arms to loosely hang on Prompto’s shoulder until well after he’s relaxed.

“Are you okay?” Gladio asks.

“No,” Prompto mutters into his chest. “I’m not okay.”

Gladio shudders, sighing. “I know. I know.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Safe Haven Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13016691) by [suarhnir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suarhnir/pseuds/suarhnir)




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